Sir Leward himself had only just arrived and was going through his letters when Poole reported, but, remembering the charms of the young lady who had inspired this investigation, the Chief sent away his secretary and listened to the detective’s report. “Does Mr. Barrod know about this?” he asked, when Poole had finished. “No, sir. He told me to report direct to you.” “Better . . .” Sir Leward checked himself, remembering the Chief Inspector’s obvious lack of interest. “All right, we’ll keep it to ourselves for the moment. Now what’s the next step?” “That’s as you decide, sir. If I might make a suggestion, I think I ought now to interview Mr. Ryland Fratten and find out whether he knew about that will and the date of its signature.” “He’d hardly tell you, would he?” “He might, if he were off his guard; or at any rate he might make some statement which might later be proved false. Assuming, that is, for the moment, that he is guilty. And that’s a big assumption, sir, when we don’t even know that there has been a crime.” “No. I suppose we don’t. Still, it looks more like it than it did. You’ve done very well, Poole, to get so far with so little to go on.” Poole shook his head. “I didn’t do well with the doctor, sir. I don’t know now whether he examined the body for marks of violence or not; he only said that there weren’t any.” “A different thing, eh?” “Yes, sir; he was angry and wanted to get rid of me. I oughtn’t to have let him get angry. He wasn’t an easy subject though, sir.” “I’ll bet he wasn’t; I know those knighted physicians—benighted, most of them.” It took Poole the better part of the day to find Ryland Fratten. He had not the heart to go and ask Inez Fratten for her brother’s address; it was so like asking her to help in putting an halter round his neck. He did not care, either, to ask the butler at Queen Anne’s Gate; he did not want to start any gossip yet in that quarter. He ran him to earth at length, by dint of trying all the theatrical and semi-theatrical clubs in London in turn. The “Doorstep” Club, in Burlington Gardens, caters for a mixed clientele—(it is a proprietary affair, and a very profitable one at that)—of young bucks interested in boxing, horse-racing, and the stage. Apart from the young bucks themselves, many of the leading jockeys, the more amusing actors, and the least unsuccessful boxers, were members of the club, though their subscriptions were in many cases “overlooked” by the intelligent proprietor. Poole was admitted, presumably on the strength of his good looks or his athletic figure, by a hall porter who ought to have known better. He was shown into the small and dark room on the ground-floor-back which was reserved for visitors, and his private card: “John Poole, 35 Vincent Gardens, S.W.”—a guileless looking affair—sent up by a “bell-hop” to Mr. Fratten. Ryland Fratten appeared after about ten minutes, with a half-finished cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other.